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Back in Oaxaca. A ghost. The mother in the quirky movie Volver (To Return) or is it the other way around, Juan Preciado in Pedro Páramo? I’ve left something undone. No idea what that might be but I’ll find out. Oaxaca, never enough, never done. Old friends, new acquaintances.
Sea Gull Cellar Bar Napkin Art, Mark Eanes artist
Color everywhere. All of the world’s rainbows decided to meet here in this valley below the Sierra Madre to share a pot of gold. The rocket bombs for Independencia, a month early, vie with the tubas and brass and drums of the calendas (parades) as the monos de calenda (giant paper mâchè puppets) look on in amused wonder.
“Never too hot, never too cold” says the man in the Zocalo.
Mole simmers in pots, steam snaking through nostrils, ethereal messengers of times past, of times to come.
Sea Gull Cellar Bar Napkin Art, Tim artist
Why? Why is it never enough? The bells ring down from Santo Domingo, from Carmen del Alto, from Sangre de Cristo. The blood of Christ. Blood, running in the streets, the streets of America. Here is ancient blood, Zapotec, Mixtec, Mazateco, Chinanteco, Mixe. Ghosts, now in stone buildings, now resurrected in flowers. Colors. Everywhere.
They come. Italians, Australians, Israelis, French, Latinos from further south. Even the Americans.
The wind swishes past. It says: “Stay.” Nothing but talk, obviously. “Stay.” How foolish. “Stay.”
Sea Gull Cellar Bar Napkin Art, Richard Albright artist
In northern Mexico they work. In central Mexico they think. In southern Mexico they rest.
The wind swishes past. It says: “Stay.” Nothing but talk, obviously. “Stay.” How foolish. “Stay.”
At the corner the wind swirls into a cloud of dust. The dust settles. Figures pass. Time goes on.